Winter Hill, Book One: White Lies
by Petronille
Summary: Neeve only returned to Gotham to seek justice for her brother's murder. Oswald Cobblepot just wanted to be somebody. As tensions mount in Gotham's criminal underworld, they form an unlikely partnership to bring Gotham's ailing Irish mob back to the forefront. Slightly AU, diverges from canon established in Episode 12.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Gotham, **_**but all original characters are mine. Frank and Seamus Doyle are very loosely based on Whitey Bulger and the Winter Hill gang.**

**Author's Note: A reviewer brought to my attention the inconsistencies in how the events in _Winter _**_**Hill **_**fall within the timeline established in **_**Gotham.**_ **Because of this, I made some edits and changed some minor details. **_**Winter Hill**_** starts out in Episode 7 and follows the timeline through Episode 11, then will veer in its own direction.**

**And to answer another reviewer's question, Neeve and her father had been following the Wayne case for awhile. Just exactly why Frank Doyle had his daughter to go back to Gotham will be revealed later in the story; the Wayne murders just offered a good enough reason for him to set things in motion. If you're curious as to what it might be, please read up on Whitey Bulger and his dealings with the FBI.**

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter One**

She didn't want to go back.

But she had to.

She had followed the case in the news. It was sad, really. Her father had always said they were a good family, and he had always been sure to give generously to their charities and causes. "Pray for the boy, won't you?" he had beseeched when she had gone to visit him in the federal prison. "A prayer to St. Jude for him."

"Of course, Dad," she had promised, though she didn't dare tell him that she hadn't prayed in a very long time.

"They said there's gonna be blood in the streets. You have to go back, Neeve. You've got to go back."

"Of course, Dad," she said, swallowing. "Of course I'll go back."

"That's my girl," Frank Doyle said with a wan smile. "It was only with us about that they knew their place, Maroni and the pigs who worked for him. Time for them to learn it again."

She didn't know what her dad meant by that, but she would go back to Gotham, even for a little bit, just to look in on Seamus and see how he was doing. She had learned to distance herself from her father's line of work long ago, after he had been caught by the Feds and her mother had divorced him, after her brother had been shot and killed in the parking garage in front of his wife and baby. They all knew it had been Maroni, but with Seamus Doyle trying to look like he had gone straight, and half of their men either being arrested themselves or turning state's witness against Frank Doyle, there was nothing that could be done. Not for awhile.

"An art history degree isn't going to mean much to Uncle Seamus," she had joked.

"You're a smart girl, Neeve. You'll learn quick enough." Frank had grinned. He had always been proud of her and Kevin for going to college. Academia had beckoned to Neeve, and she had followed her passion, and her father had been relieved, for he had never wanted her in the business. Kevin, who had double-majored in business and finance at Gotham University, had been her father's sole heir. Until he had been killed.

"We'll find out who killed Kevin," she had told Frank. "We'll get justice, within the law or on our own terms."

Her father nodded. "That's what I want. But work with your uncle and your cousins, work with the coppers. Find out what you need to do to get on their good side so we can relive some of our old glory days."

"I will, Dad," she said, her throat going dry. "I will."

* * *

><p>"Go back to Gotham?" her mother exclaimed, and Neeve had to hold the mobile phone away from her ear. "Why are you doing that, Neeve? You know what happened when your brother got mixed up in this business! Do you want to end up like him?"<p>

"No, Mom." She folded up another blouse and placed it in her suitcase. "Dad wants me to look in on the construction business and see if Uncle Seamus needs any help. And I want to see Danica and Tierney and baby Dylan."

"You're lying, Neeve," Vera Phelan-Doyle said flatly. "I can tell when you lie. What did your dad say to you?"

"Why does it matter, Mom? You're not married to him anymore. You went back to Chicago. And took me with you."

"You chose to come to Chicago with me. If you'd stayed in Gotham, you would have had a target on your back, and Maroni's men would have killed you, too, Neeve. You were able to have a good life. You still can have a good life."

"Mom." Neeve inhaled deeply. "Mom, do you know what happened? The Waynes are dead. They were gunned down in front of their son. Like Kevin was in front of Danica and Tierney."

Vera was silent for a moment. "Yes, I heard about it. But I don't see what it has to do with Tierney and Dylan."

"It has _everything_ to do with Tierney and Dylan!"

"Do you think it was the same men who killed Kevin?"

"I don't know. Mom, I can't say…"

"Then why go back to Gotham and get mixed up in all this? Why not just go on to get your Ph.D. like you said you wanted to?"

"Because, Mom. Because I have to know who killed Kevin, and because I want to pay them pay."

"Moroni's men will pay for nothing. They don't give a shit about the Irish mob anymore, Neeve. Those days in Gotham are over."

Neeve gritted her teeth. "No, Mom. Maroni and even Carmine Falcone…they need to be made to care. The Waynes are gone. There's no one else…"

Vera sighed. "Be careful, Neeve. You're playing with fire."

"I know, Mom."

"In the end, all of this will ruin you."

* * *

><p>If Kevin had been the heir, then Neeve had been her father's prize child.<p>

She had gone to an all girls' Catholic school, St. Catherine of Siena, until things had gone to shit and her dad went to prison. She went to a Catholic high school after that, and from there to the University of Chicago for college and grad school. She was supposed to avoid the shadow of the Irish mob. Until Kevin had been killed.

Her world had stopped. She had wanted to move out to Gotham to help Danica with Tierney and Dylan, but her mother had kept her from doing that. Danica could come to Chicago, or she could stay in Gotham and get help from her family. Come hell or high water, Vera Phelan-Doyle would not set foot in Gotham again. Neeve had gone a few times to see Danica and Tierney and some of her friends from her childhood, but there was no target on her back now. The glory days of the Doyle gang had been on the wane since her father had been put away, and were it not for Don Carmine Falcone's intervention, it would be gone. Seamus was running things now, though he concerned himself more with small-time operations, like illegal gambling joints, blind pigs, extracting money from the local business owners for "protection," and an interest in the drug and sex trades.

She remembered Winter Hill, the part of Gotham hailed as the place to be for the nouveau riche. Her father had built a new house for them, and her mother had been so proud to hobnob with Gotham old money. After her father had gone to prison the house had been sold, and she and her mother had picked up and moved to Chicago while Kevin had stayed behind to run the family construction business—the _legitimate _business—with Seamus. At least, that was what they had thought.

"It's good to see you, Neeve," Seamus said when she stepped into the old brownstone house that seemed so familiar. "How was the flight?"

"Long," she replied, and he laughed and enveloped her in a bear hug. "But it's good to be home."

"Even if it's gone to shite?" Seamus said, leading her into the room that served as his office.

"How's it going to shit, Uncle Seamus?" she asked him. He closed the door behind him, then went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of good whiskey for them. That was Seamus. The first he'd always done before talking business was fetch the good whiskey.

"You remember the Waynes, Neevy?" he said.

"Remember them? How could I forget them? Mom made a big deal of Martha Wayne doing a big philanthropy project in the old Five Points neighborhood of Winter Hill. I met Martha once. Mom made sure to introduce me to her. She promised to invite me to the mansion to see the family art collection. But then Dad got busted." She laughed almost bitterly as she sat down in the leather chair by the bay window.

"How's your dad?" Seamus set down a glass of whiskey on the table beside her.

"Surviving, I guess. He's not someone anyone wants to mess with. All he does is read books, when he's not praying to his saints. He told me he was reading the Tarzan novels."

"Ah, that's your dad. It was books that did him in and got us into this, I say. They made him want more than he would have ever been able to get just doing it the right way."

"He owes society a debt. He's paying it." She shrugged as she sipped the whiskey. "Men died so he could give us the life we had. Sometimes I wonder whether or not it was worth it."

"It was worth it, Neevy. Some of those men had to die."

"Other people might not have thought so. Did the Waynes have to die? Did Kevin have to die?"

"You think too much, Neevy." Seamus sat down in the chair facing hers.

"You think too little, Uncle Seamus." She glanced away from him, staring out the window. It was growing dark, and the street lights were just coming on. They had tried to make the street lights like the old Victorian ones in this neighborhood. They'd thought it would bring some nostalgia into the neighborhood. They only made Neeve sad.

"Damn, Neevy, you're just like your mother with that tongue of yours." Seamus rose and poured himself more whiskey. "It breaks the heart."

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much whiskey." Neeve scoffed and drained her glass. She went to Seamus's side. "A third glass? You expecting someone?"

"Aye, I am." When Seamus was drunk, his Irish brogue would emerge. "You ever meet him, Neeve?"

"It would depend on who he is," she said, her mouth twisting into a smirk.

"You ever hear the name Cobblepot, Neevy?"

"Kevin mentioned him once or twice before he died. Why?"

Seamus grinned. "You get to meet him tonight, Neeve. He has high hopes for himself."

"What does that have to do with us?"

"He might know who killed Kevin, and who may have ordered it."

"Might know is different than really knowing."

"All semantics."

"You're going to let me sit in on this?" Neeve said, raising a dark eyebrow.

"Isn't that why you're here, Neevy?"

"Dad wanted me to give our respects to the Wayne boy…"

"There's nothing you can do for the Wayne boy, Neevy, save teach him about Picasso. Or appraise the family art collection. Your da wanted you to do more, Neevy. Sit with us, and let's see what Cobblepot might tell us."

Neeve retreated to the leather chair she had been occupying with a newly full glass of whiskey. "Play on, Uncle Seamus," she gritted out.

* * *

><p>Seamus Doyle reeked of good whiskey and bad cigars. When he was drunk, he would slip into his Irish brogue, calling Oswald Cobblepot boyo or bucko.<p>

The Doyle gang, called the Winter Hill gang by the press, had once been the most feared gang in Gotham. Frank and Seamus Doyle had ruled Gotham with ruthlessness and cruelty. Urban legend had it that they had been more ruthless than the Italian mob. And then Frank Doyle had been found out by the Feds, and seven years later, Kevin Doyle had been gunned down in front of his pregnant wife and toddler daughter.

And Seamus Doyle hadn't been so discourteous about the new…deformities that plagued Oswald Cobblepot. The worst that had been said was, "Oh, poor boyo, you know they'll kill you one day. I'll tell you what, come by house in a few days—around eight—and we'll talk more about this."

And Oswald Cobblepot went to Seamus Doyle's brownstone house up on Winter Hill, only to see that a third person present in their meeting. She regarded him with a wrinkled brow, her glass poised before rosily glossed lips, when he limped in.

"It's Oswald Cobblepot, Neevy. We talked about him."

"Yeah, we did." The woman called Neevy didn't stand up. "I hope you like your whiskey, Oswald Cobblepot."

She leaned forward, her dark hair catching the light from the window, her pale skin glowing in the lamplight that shone from outside. She cradled a glass of Irish whiskey in her hand, the nails of which were well manicured. Her cheekbones were high, her forehead wide, her chin pointed and narrow. Her hazel eyes reminded him of river waters that concealed much beneath the placid surface.

"Oh, indeed, Miss Doyle," he said. "Indeed I like my whiskey."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Gotham,**_** but all original characters are mine.**

**Author's Note: I am so glad people like this! Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites! I am so glad people like this. As for "cast," I picture Ophelia Lovibond, who currently portrays Kitty Winter on _Elementary,_ as Neeve.**

**A reviewer brought to my attention the inconsistencies in how the events in _Winter Hill _fall within the timeline established in _Gotham._ Because of this, I made some edits and changed some minor details. _Winter Hill_ starts out in Episode 7 and follows the timeline through Episode 11, then will veer in its own direction.**

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter Two**

Seamus indicated a leather chair beside Neeve's. "Have a seat, Ozzy. Here's some whiskey. You take it straight, right?"

Oswald gritted his teeth at being called Ozzy, but he had been called worse things, so he simpered and raised the glass in a toasting motion to Seamus. "I like it straight, Mr. Doyle. Thank you."

Neeve watched him as he sipped his whisky. Her expression remained neutral, and after a few moments she fidgeted in her chair. Seamus, who had gone for another drink, made his way to the sofa, careful as to how he placed each step. Oswald thought he may have teetered a bit, but he couldn't be sure, as Seamus Doyle liked it to be known that he could hold his liquor and didn't let it get the better of him. Oh, but how far from the truth that was! Seamus Doyle had the tendency to get blackout drunk, and often forgot the promises he may have made during a bender. And that kind of memory lapse had proved useful to Oswald once. He had thought it would prove useful tonight. But then his plans had been foiled with Seamus's niece joining them unannounced.

"Ozzy has a proposal for us, Neevy," Seamus said, leaning back in the leather sofa he occupied, Oswald thought he could hear the springs give way under the man's weight.

"Oh, he does?" Neeve said, raising a dark eyebrow. No, she still seemed suspicious of Oswald. "So what do you have to say to my uncle and me—Ozzy?"

Oswald noticed the expression of incredulity on her face. But then was normal. Most people didn't take note of him or even take him seriously. He smiled at her. "I can deliver something to you, Miss Doyle."

"What can you deliver?"

He waited for a few moments, watching as her countenance changed. She leaned toward him, curious. No, not curious, eager. He took a few sips of whiskey, then rested the glass on his lap, staring into it for a few moments.

"I can find out who killed your brother, Miss Doyle."

"What?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. She almost dropped her whiskey glass but regained her composure just in time. "What are you saying?"

"He says he can help us find out who killed Kevin," Seamus replied. "Think of it, Neevy. We can finally get justice, like we promised your father we would."

Neeve blinked twice, glancing from Oswald to Seamus and then back again. "But how can _you_ help _us?"_

Oswald let the corners of his mouth slide upwards into a smirk. "I used to work for Fish Mooney, but Don Salvatore Maroni is currently taking advantage of my services."

Seamuis snorted. "Oh, be up front about it, boyo! He's a damned tout, Neeve!"

Neeve's eyes narrowed. "But who do you really work for? Our loyalties lie with Falcone. He's protected the Doyle gang ever since my dad went to prison."

The misuse of _who _when _whom_ should have been used grated on Oswald's nerves, but he didn't let it show. "I work for Don Maroni, Miss Doyle. But I'd be willing to work with your organization, if I could be rewarded accordingly."

Seamus's bloodshot blue eyes met Neeve's. A beat passed, after which Oswald proceeded. "The Doyle gang is all but extinct. Carmine Falcone has been feeding it a lifeline, keeping it alive, but just barely. Maroni knows Frank Doyle, the brains behind it all, will never be getting out of prison, and he made his move. The Wayne murders have left this city in flux, and in this confusion, the Doyle gang could make their move."

"If we made a move, you would want in," Neeve murmured. Her brow crumpled, as though she were making sense of something. "And you'd want the protection my other uncle can offer."

"The senator." Oswald smiled.

Neeve's lip curled. "If we could, Ozzy, I'd like to talk more about this at another time, when Seamus is sober."

Oh, so polite, yet oh, so…cutting. This one wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to let him push Seamus Doyle around anymore.

"I'll look forward to it," he said. "Good night, Seamus. Good night, Neeve. I know the way out."

He left them both there, Seamus Doyle drinking himself into oblivion on the couch and Neeve Doyle sitting in her chair, her brow clouded, as she watched him limp out the door. 

* * *

><p>Neeve had to get out of the house to clear her head. The meeting with Cobblepot left her confused, and she suspected that he was after something else, but she couldn't be sure, not with her head addled with whiskey and Seamus beginning to mumble to himself about the "old days." Neeve didn't care about the old days. They were long gone, and there was no use reliving them. What they had was the here and now, and they had to make the best of it.<p>

She found the young thug who worked at Seamus's driver, Nolan, in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich from whatever was in Seamus's fridge. "Can you drive me somewhere?" she asked him, and he jumped when he heard her. He stared at her for a moment, then woefully down at his sandwich, as though it was something he had been anticipating all day. "No, it's okay," she said, "I can wait a minute. Go ahead and eat."

"Thanks, Miss Doyle," Nolan said, relaxing. "Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

She laughed hollowly. "Anywhere but here."

He smiled. "I think I can do that, Miss Doyle."

Twenty minutes later, they were at the pub down the street, sitting at a table near the bar and watching the hockey game. Neeve was relieved that she wasn't in Seamus's house, listening to him grumble and snore in his drunken sleep. Here she could drink ginger ale to settle her stomach and eat loaded baked potato skins to her heart's content.

"You all right, Miss Doyle?" Nolan asked her as he reached for another piece of potato. Neeve shrugged.

"I will be, Nolan, thanks. I'm just a little overwhelmed, is all."

"Good thing you stood up to that Ozzy," Nolan said. "He's been coming 'round trying to push Seamus around for a good few weeks…and Seamus lets him. Treats Oswald like he's his best friend. Oswald just sits there and lets him talk about the old days."

"I'm sure he listens closely, too," Neeve muttered. Something was very wrong with Oswald Cobblepot. "That's all Seamus wants, sometimes, is someone to talk to."

"He tries to be that person," Nolan said. "Seamus shouldn't be saying nothing to no tout."

"No," Neeve murmured. "He shouldn't be saying anything." _Especially not to a tout._

* * *

><p>"I'm thinking of staying in Gotham longer than I planned, Mom," Neeve told Vera when she got home.<p>

There was a long silence on the line. "You remember what I told you, Neeve," her mother reminded her at length.

"I know, Mom. I know this could be trouble. But Uncle Seamus…There's someone who's been sniffing around, and I'm thinking he's looking to take advantage of Uncle Seamus."

"You want to take over the business?" Vera said. "What would you know about running a construction business, Neeve?"

"Enough." Neeve glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Do you think I could take it over, Mom?"

"If you had help."

"Who'd help me, Mom?"

"You know who, Neeve."

Neeve sighed. "I don't want to."

"Like they say, beggars can't be choosers."

"There's two choices, Mom. Uncle Ned or Carmine Falcone. Which one?"

A moment of deliberation. "You choose, Neeve."

Neeve chose.

Carmine Falcone it was.

* * *

><p>Carmine Falcone, who had attended both her First Communion and Confirmation, didn't call her Neevy, or Neevy-girl as he had when she was a child, but Neeve.<p>

He had tried to keep touch with Neeve through Kevin, until Kevin's death. When Neeve and her mother had attended Kevin's funeral, Neeve had heard him say to Vera, "I promise you, Vee, I'll do whatever I can to find out who did this and I'll kill him myself."

He had never been able find out who had killed Kevin, just like he had never been able to find out who had killed his own son, Gabriel.

She checked her messages again and found that the _senator_ had called her and she had missed it. Edward Doyle had just been reelected to serve his district again in the state senate, and he had won by a landslide. There were allegations of ballot tampering, but there was no proof of that, and Uncle Ned stayed where he was. Somehow, Frank and Seamus Doyle's illegal activities were never mentioned during the elections. Perhaps it was because Ned had been so careful to distance himself from it, but Neeve knew that if an opponent dared to mention it, there would be hell to pay. And that had always been a guarantee if anyone publicly spoke ill of Ned Doyle's family.

Uncle Ned's message was terse; he more or less demanded that Neeve join him for dinner at Maroni's one evening "to discuss current circumstances." Neeve had an idea of what those were: Seamus's descent into alcoholism and his new best friend, the Wayne murders, Kevin's death, and her unexpected arrival in Gotham.

Nolan took Seamus to work—and Neeve had no idea of how that was going, since Seamus had sneaked whiskey in his coffee this morning. Neeve was left alone in the brownstone house in Winter Hill, unsure of how to proceed with things. Seamus would only allow her to know so much about the business, and there was no way she could ask Danica, since Kevin had kept his wife just as shielded from the business.

Neeve didn't have to wait for long.

Carmine Falcone reached out to her.

"The park is a public place," Carmine Falcone explained as they walked through Winter Hill Veterans' Memorial Park. "But public places are the best for private conversations."

Neeve glanced at Carmine Falcone and sipped her coffee so that she wouldn't have to reply right away. He had called her that morning, requesting to meet in the park. She had stopped to get coffee on the way, mostly to calm her nerves before seeing him. She had been certain that it would bring all of the old memories back, of her dad's arrest and Kevin's murder. But now, walking beside him, she felt nothing except pity for the old man. His son, Gabriel, had been gunned down just as Kevin had, two years ago, and while he also suspected it to be Maroni, he knew better than to be hasty in his quest for vindication. And he had more or less said the same to her mother at Kevin's funeral.

"It's good to see you back, Neeve," he commented again, tucking his scarf into the neck of his expensive trenchcoat. "I've needed to talk to someone I can trust for awhile."

"How do you know you can trust me?" Neeve asked him. He eyed her levelly, as though he were preparing to be direct with her.

"You and I both want the same things, Neeve. We want justice for the people we lost, either through the law or through what we consider justice. But I was able to trust your dad with my life, and he's never said a word about what he did for me, even though the Feds have offered him a reduced sentence if he did. Loyalty, Neeve. It's all about loyalty. Because your dad has always been loyal to me, I'm going to go out on a limb and trust you. You follow?"

"I guess I do. But what can you tell me about Seamus running things?"

Carmine laughed. "It gets worse by the day, Neeve. The booze has muddled his judgment. I offered to pay for him to go rehab and dry out, but he won't. He forced my hand."

"How?" Neeve asked, and Falcone stopped walking, staring down at her.

"I've lost money, Neeve. A lot of it because he can't keep it together. And with that Cobblepot sniffing around…"

"He was at the house last night. He was trying to discuss business with Seamus, who was blackout drunk. I cut things short and told Cobblepot to come back another day."

"That's exactly why I was going to ask you, Neeve."

"Ask me what?"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, gazing down at her paternally. "How would you like to take Seamus's place and run things for me in Winter Hill?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Gotham, _but all original characters are mine.**

**Author's Note: Thanks for all of the favorites, follows, and reviews! I'm glad you like the story…and that you like Neeve. We get more of her backstory in this chapter.**

**A reviewer brought to my attention the inconsistencies in how the events in _Winter Hill _fall within the timeline established in _Gotham._ Because of this, I made some edits and changed some minor details. _Winter Hill_ starts out in Episode 7 and follows the timeline through Episode 11, then will veer in its own direction. This chapter takes place soon after Episode 7.**

**I've also added a scene that tightens up the plot a bit. I hope it works.**

**Some of the songs from the playlist:**

**_Copper Title,_ by Brian Keane_  
>Greek Tragedy, <em>by The Wombats**  
><strong><em>Spark, <em>by Fitz and the Tantrums**  
><strong><em>Hurricane,<em> by MSMR**  
><strong><em>Elastic Heart,<em> by Sia**  
><strong><em>Fame,<em> by Santigold**  
><strong><em>A Dustland Fairytale, <em>by The Killers**  
><strong><em>No Rest for the Wicked,<em> Lykke Li**  
><strong><em>Come Join the Murder,<em> by The White Buffalo (which could be the theme song for this story)**  
><strong>All songs can be found on Spotify.<strong>

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter Three**

Neeve felt her jaw go slack. "What did you just ask me?"

"I asked you if you wanted to run things in Winter Hill in your uncle's place," Falcone repeated, keeping his voice measured. "Run it how your dad would have run it, how Kevin was running it."

Neeve blinked a few times, then took a large gulp of coffee. She choked a bit as the scalding liquid seared its way down her throat. Somehow, that seemed to bring her back to reality. "But I don't know anything about running any type of business. I studied art history and literature in college…"

"You underestimate yourself, Neeve. You're a smart girl. You're smarter than a lot of the other people who work for me. You know why? Because you can admit when you're not sure about something, and you can ask for help. That's what I want, Neeve, someone who can come to me with whatever it is she needs. Can you do that?"

Neeve bit her lip, glancing away from him. "I…"

"You came to me before, Neeve, when you were in trouble. Because you knew how your dad would react. Don't you remember?" Falcone murmured. "You were scared. And you had a right to be. This time, though, there's nothing to be scared of."

Neeve could remember it, how she had taken a cab to Falcone's house in the country, sobbing uncontrollably as she told him. He had pulled her close to him and told her that everything would be all right, but they would have to tell her father. And Neeve didn't want to tell her father.

"Do you know what you want to do, Neeve?" Falcone asked her presently.

_Do you know what you want to do, Neeve?_

_Yes. Yes, I do, but my dad…_

_I'll take care of your father, Neeve. You just tell me what you want to do._

She still remembered it, standing in the dining room as her father had enjoyed the snifter of brandy that Falcone had brought over. Falcone had invited Neeve to sit down in between him and her father while the housekeeper had seen to clearing the rest of the dishes. Vera had taken a place across from Neeve, her forehead wrinkled in concern. Neeve remembered how her father's face had darkened as Falcone had told him what Neeve had confided to him, and before Falcone could finish speaking, her father had sprung up from his chair with a shout of, "God _damn_ you, Neeve!" And she hadn't seen the blow coming, but she had suddenly seen stars and felt herself falling to the floor. "One of my runners! A goddamn street punk!" her father had bellowed, while her mother had shrieked out his name and stepped in front of him to restrain him from beating his daughter. And it hadn't been her father who had helped her up, but Falcone, while her mother had examined the swelling under her eye and the cut on her lip. And then Kevin had come downstairs at the sound of the commotion, and upon seeing his sister's condition, had demanded what their father had done…_why…_

"I think I do," she said, turning to face him. "But it's not for my dad. It's for Kevin's son and daughter. And for you. Because without you, we'd be nothing."

He smiled down at her. "Thank you, Neeve. You don't know how much that means to me. I'll show you everything you need to know, and if you need anything, you can come directly to me."

"And what do we tell Seamus?" Neeve queried. Falcone continued walking and motioned for Neeve to follow him. "He's not going to take it well."

"I'll take care of Seamus," Falcone replied. "In the end, he'll have to listen to me. And if I tell him to step aside, he'll have to step aside."

Neeve felt her throat go dry as she tried to keep in step with Falcone. She was doing the one thing that her mother had warned her not to do, the one thing that her father wouldn't have liked to see. Or would he have liked to see it?

"If I do this," she said, "we'll find out who killed Kevin—and take care of them, won't we?"

Falcone glanced down at her benevolently. The way he had always looked at her, as though she were family. "I promise you, Neeve, we'll find out who killed Kevin…and they'll pay. And I'll always look out for you, because we're family. Always remember that."

"I've never forgotten it," Neeve replied. "You've always looked out for me, even better than my own dad has."

"Someone has to," he said. And they were silent during the rest of their walk through the park.

It was Falcone who broke the news to Seamus at lunch that afternoon. Seamus seemed resigned to it, as though he had seen it coming from the moment Neeve had stepped through his door. Neeve had sat there in the deli with them, her corned beef sandwich half eaten and her face flushed red, unable to look Seamus in the eye.

It made Neeve wonder if her father had somehow given Falcone a heads-up about her arrival in Gotham. If her father had been able to pass something on to him, perhaps through his own attorney or even Uncle Ned or anyone else her father worked with.

She had never put anything past her father. Never. As much as she had loved him, as much as she had always been his Neevy-girl, she had also feared him. She had never had cause to fear Carmine Falcone. He had always kept his promises to her, just as her father should have.

Falcone insisted that Neeve dine with him at his home that evening, as they were celebrating the compromise reached in the Arkham deal. "I want to acquaint you with the business in Winter Hill. And I'd like to break the news to our little snitch."

"The tout?" Neeve heard herself say, suppressing a giggle. "Why break the news to him?"

"Consider it an exercise. You couldn't look Seamus in the eye when I broke the news to him. You need to learn how to look people in the eye when doing business with them. If you look someone in the eye, you let them know they're important to you. It also lets them know you're not intimidated by them. I'm not going to be by your side all the time, Neeve. You have to step into the role I gave you."

"When you talk about people who'd try to intimidate me," Neeve said, "you're talking about the other people who answer to you, don't you?" She crumpled up the sandwich wrapper and picked at the remaining potato chips on her plate.

"Like I said, Neeve, you're a smart girl. You'll learn quickly enough." He sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face, and it made Neeve wonder if he really _had_ known that she was coming to Gotham, if he and her father had somehow planned all of this and set it in motion.

She would never put anything past Carmine Falcone, either.

* * *

><p>Perhaps the most redeeming quality about Carmine Falcone was his art collection. He had bought pieces on the black market all over the world, and had accepted some pieces illegally as payment for services rendered or products provided. He was eager to show Neeve the new items he had acquired over the years and listen to what she might know about them. So absorbed was she in the two Renoirs that she didn't realize someone else was in the room until she heard the familiar tones of, "Good evening, Don Falcone. To what do I owe this pleasure?"<p>

Neeve groaned inwardly and took a large sip of wine before going to Falcone's side. Cobblepot seemed to frown at Neeve's unexpected presence.

"Don Falcone, forgive me, but I'm afraid I don't understand. You said that I was going to be meeting the new associate running things on your behalf in Winter Hill. I've already met Miss Doyle." He smiled and acknowledged Neeve. "But it's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Doyle. That dress looks very nice on you."

Neeve murmured her thanks. She took note of Cobblepot's appearance. He looked neat enough in his freshly pressed suit, and his hair was presentable, but the bruises under his eye and on his cheek told a different story. Working for Maroni certainly had its disadvantages. Very brutal ones.

"It's really very simple, Oswald. You see, Miss Doyle is going to be running things in Winter Hill on my behalf from now on," Falcone said smoothly, placing his hand on the small of Neeve's back for just a moment. "So if you're interested in working for Miss Doyle, now would be the time to say so."

Cobblepot's jaw flexed as he eyed Neeve, but he shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "No, thank you, Don Falcone, I have a full enough plate as it is reporting to you and Don Maroni. Though I'm sure Miss Doyle understands."

"Oh, I understand completely," Neeve said lightly, tilting her head and regarding Oswald knowingly. "Working for two dons must be very difficult! How do you handle it?"

"I handle it well enough, thank you for asking, Miss Doyle." He took a glass of wine from Don Falcone and raised his glass toward her. "Here's to your new position, Miss Doyle." Neeve raised her glass in return, though she could detect no sincerity in his gesture.

"You know, I had lunch with Seamus and Neeve earlier today," Falcone said casually, "and Seamus said you had drinks with him and Neeve last night. Do you know what else Seamus said?" He took a few steps toward Cobblepot. The younger man's blue eyes locked on Falcone, and his mouth twisted just a bit as his hands began to tremble.

"What did Seamus say?" Cobblepot wondered.

"Seamus said that you told him and Neeve that you might know who killed Kevin Doyle…and that you could help them find that person."

"I did say that." Cobblepot swallowed.

"Neeve says you were also interested in working for Seamus. So you would leave me in the dark when it comes to Maroni. Did you have any intention of telling me?"

Cobblepot's eyes wandered to Neeve. "That's not what I meant, Don Falcone."

"Then what did you mean?" Falcone asked him. Neeve felt her insides twist just a bit. Falcone was extracting the needed information from Cobblepot, but what else might he do?

"He meant that he would work with us if anything happened to you," Neeve interrupted quickly. Falcone whirled to face her.

"Who's 'us?" he asked her.

"Us, as in the Doyle gang…under you." Neeve caught Cobblepot's eye, and he seemed to relax. "But then he's a tout. I don't see how he would really be able to help us."

"No, let him stay where he is," Falcone said. "Unless you could offer him something, Neeve?"

"Only if he asked me…very nicely." Neeve sipped her wine again and watched Falcone leave to greet the dinner guests who had just arrived. Once Falcone was gone, Cobblepot glared at her.

"There was no need for you to lie to Falcone on my behalf, Miss Doyle," he told her. "I would have thought of something."

Neeve laughed. "Of course you would have. But a half-truth is better than a lie…and I have no idea of how Don Falcone would have reacted if you told another lie. You look like you've been through enough for one day." She pointed to her own eye and cheek to signify his injuries.

"Do you feel sorry for me, Miss Doyle? Is that it?" he demanded, his voice growing quiet. He made his way to the table where Falcone had set the wine so that he could pour himself another glass.

"I don't feel sorry for you," Neeve said, "mostly because the current sad state of affairs in your life is all your own doing. But I do think that someone can only be hit so many times in one day."

He poured himself some more wine, then limped to her side to take a look at the paintings on the wall behind her. "How would you know about that, Miss Doyle?"

"You're forgetting who my father is. Not all violent men can keep their ways out of their homes for long." Neeve pursed her lips and continued on to the next painting.

"Who are you to Don Falcone?" Cobblepot asked her.

Neeve turned to him. "Don Falcone is my godfather," she replied simply. She turned her attention to the piece in front of her. "Do you know what this is? This is one of Artemisia Gentileschi's sketches for her Judith painting. Have you ever seen it? The real painting?"

"No, I haven't. I've never seen much of Don Falcone's collection," he told her. "He has never given me the opportunity until now. But I would like it if you showed me."

Neeve's brow crumpled as she stared at his face. There was no trace of guile in his expression or tone. And if anything, Cobblepot knew how to talk a good game.

"Where do you want to start?" she asked him. He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes scanning the room, and he gestured at the Impressionist paintings.

"Those, if you'd like. I want to hear everything you have to say."

Neeve's brows rose. "About the art collection," she said.

"Oh, yes, how silly of me to forget. About the art collection," he amended, chuckling.

They must have stood there for a few moments, but she grew nervous when he moved closer to her. She didn't want him to stand too close. He seemed to understand this and kept a safe distance away, but it was still enough that it felt oddly intimate. She was conscientious enough to give him time to talk and ask questions, and he took full advantage of it. But there was something terribly wrong about it, not the menacing kind of wrong, but the heartbreaking kind of wrong. He seemed to light up in those moments, as though they were friends, though she hardly knew him, and though she had a very low opinion of him, from what she had seen of him.

They didn't hear Falcone enter the room with the rest of his guests in tow. "Neeve," Falcone said, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he called her name. "Cobblepot, you remember Fish Mooney, don't you? Fish, you might not remember Neeve…"

"Of course I remember Neevy Doyle. And the scaly-faced bitch standing right by her." Fish Mooney, someone whom Neeve remembered from the last few years of her father's reign in Winter Hill. Fish smiled at Neeve, but when she addressed Cobblepot, her lip curled and her face bore the utmost hatred for the man. Neeve was certain that Fish Mooney would have lunged at him had she not been there, but Fish seemed to be on her best behavior.

"It's not Neevy anymore. Just Neeve. Fish." Neeve smiled slightly. "And this scaly-faced bitch is Oswald Cobblepot."

"You seemed pretty close with him, _Neeve._ Just be careful." She came to Neeve's side, shaking her manicured forefinger. "He's a snitch. And snitches will spill everything if it'll save their pathetic hides."

"We were just talking about Don Falcone's art collection," Neeve replied. "I studied that in college. Art history and literature."

Fish tsked. "Well, aren't you a smart girl?" She made a show of motioning with her hands again. Neeve didn't care for her manicure and made a mental note to tell her later on.

"Smart enough to know that Cobblepot is a tout." Neeve smiled triumphantly again. "But he's a nice tout. I'm beginning to like him." She laid her hand on his arm. He seemed to flinch at first, but her touch seemed to reassure him, and he stopped trembling.

"You just keep liking him, Neevy," Fish said. "But it won't get you anywhere. He'll fuck you over in the end."

Falcone took Fish by the arm. "It's good you warned her, Fish. But Neeve is a smart girl. She already has it all figured out."

"Really? That so. Neevy?" Fish eyed her speculatively.

Neeve lifted her chin. "It is."

"Keep being a smart girl, Neevy. See how far it gets you." And Fish turned away from Neeve on her stiletto heel and sauntered to the dining room.

Neeve followed them. She felt her gorge rise when she saw Maroni standing there in the dining room, enjoying a glass of Chianti as though he were Don Falcone's best friend. When he saw Neeve, he grinned. "Neevy Doyle!" he exclaimed. "Look at you! When Carmine told me you'd come back to Gotham, I didn't believe him, and now here you are, all grown up!" He laughed and embraced her. She remained stiff, going through the motions as expected, but conveying no warmth toward Maroni.

"It's good to see you again, Don Maroni," Neeve replied. "How's the restaurant business?"

"Booming. Looks like you met the Penguin. He's the new manager of Maroni's." Maroni nodded at Cobblepot with a smirk. "The whole thing was his idea, having Maroni's cater dinner at Don Falcone's home. To celebrate the Arkham deal and you coming back to Gotham."

Neeve glanced at Cobblepot, who smiled. "Well," she said, "aren't you the party planner?"

"What can I say? It's part of the job." He chuckled nervously as Maroni stared him down, then went to see to the food preparations.

Neeve drew a trembling breath and plastered a smile on her face. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>The problem with Neeve Doyle was that she was beautiful.<p>

Neeve Doyle, in her Audrey Hepburn black dress and her mahogany hair neatly blown out and her bangs parted neatly down the side and her silver earrings and silver Tiffany pendant bearing the cursive monogram _N_.

And that she defended him.

And that she gave him the time of day.

And the way she laid her hand on his arm.

After dinner, she came to him. "Nolan is driving me home. Maybe he can drive you home too?"

"Miss Doyle…"

"I don't mind."

He found himself in the back of that black Escalade, Neeve Doyle at his side. And she spoke to him then.

"Oswald, if you wanted, you could come work for me…for the Doyle gang. I would never hit you. I would never allow anyone to hit you."

"Why do you care, Miss Doyle?" he asked her, and her eyes, seeming to waver in the pale light of the street lamps at this stoplight, met his.

"Because I do."

He saw it then. The softness of her nature. She had the desire to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.

"I can protect myself, Miss Doyle. I'm very clever."

"Are you?"

The car has stopped in front of his mother's apartment building. His home. Could he bring Neeve in? No, his mother would only call her a painted hussy and accuse her of catching him in her purse…

"Think about it, Oswald. But you would have to be honest…with me. Do what you want, but be honest with me."

"Fish Mooney told you not to trust me."

"Fish Mooney can go to hell."

"Well, then. It seems we might have an accord, Miss Doyle. Neeve." He opened the door and was ready to step out, but Neeve grabbed his hand.

"Oswald. Please think about it. I couldn't bear for anyone to hit you again." Neeve squeezed his hand.

He shook her hand away, as though it was a plagued thing, but he remained courteous even as her face fell. "Good night, Miss Doyle," he said. "I hope you have a safe drive home."

He hated her.

He hated Neeve Doyle and her beauty and her pretty dress and her sincerity and her soft heart.

But Neeve Doyle had treated him as though he were a real person. That had been the worst of it all.

But her offer was tantalizing.

And he knew he would accept it.

It was only a matter of when.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Gotham, **_**but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the favorites, follows, and reviews.**

I** went through and made some edits to Chapters One through Three. Hopefully this tightens up the plot.**

**Some songs from the playlist:**

**_The Blood of Cu Chulainn,_ by Jeff Danna and Mychael Danna, from the film _Boondock Saints  
>New York, <em>by Paloma Faith  
><em>All This Could Be Yours,<em> Cold War Kids  
><em>Rill Rill,<em> by Sleigh Bells  
><em>The Bitter End,<em> by Desperate Youth  
><em>Meet Me by the River's Edge,<em> by The Gaslight Anthem  
><em>Help I'm Alive, <em>by Metric  
><em>I Wanna Get Better,<em>by Bleachers  
>All are available on Spotify.<strong>

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter Four**

"I still want you involved, Seamus. Don Falcone might not like it, but that's my condition." Neeve sat back in the kitchen chair and regarded her uncle solemnly.

"You have too many conditions, Don Falcone will have someone else run things in Winter Hill." Seamus put down his coffee mug and sighed.

"Who? Fish Mooney? Or the tout?" Neeve snorted.

"The tout is smarter than he lets you think," Seamus cautioned. "Don't be fooled by him."

"I'm not," Neeve said. "But you certainly seemed to trust him when you were drunk."

"No, be careful with him. I wasn't and look what it got me."

"I think you're better off, Uncle Seamus. You'll be my right-hand man," she laughed, but he didn't laugh.

"It's no joke. The tout seems to have made an impression on you, though."

Neeve averted her eyes from Seamus's. "He hasn't," she insisted, her cheeks coloring. "I want to help him. I don't know why, I just do."

Seamus's face grew grave. "So the little bastard wormed his way in. That's your problem, Neeve. Even though you keep your cards held closer to your chest than I hold mine, you still have a heart."

Neeve bit her lip. "I offered him a job with the Doyle gang, Seamus. Last night when I saw him at Don Falcone's, he was all bruised up. Someone had beaten him—cruelly."

"So you offered him a job? Why?"

"I felt sorry for him. I told him if he came to work for us, I would never hit him. I would never let anyone hit him."

"Damn, Neevy! Cobblepot is a tout, and he gives up information at the drop of a hat if it'll save his own scrawny ass. What would he do? He certainly can't be a runner. He can't even walk properly!"

"That's not his fault, Seamus!" Neeve blurted out, but as soon as she had said it, she regretted the words. Seamus straightened, crossing his arms across his barrel chest.

"He tugged on your heartstrings, didn't he, Neevy?"

"I only want to help him."

"You can't bring him home like he's some lost puppy dog, even though he probably looked at you like one. Now he has a way in."

"Oh, for god's sake, Seamus! He refused the offer! But even if he did take it, I would take responsibility for him…"

"And he'd do what he could to find out whatever it was he needed," Seamus said. "And he'd sell whatever he got to the highest bidder."

"Then I'd make him keep busy," Neeve said, "so busy that he wouldn't be able to get any information. But he didn't take the offer, so your point is moot." She turned her attention back to her omelet.

Seamus shook his head. "He just might show up on our doorstep one day, Neevy. And you'll have to turn him away."

"I'll worry about that if it happens," Neeve snapped. "This conversation is over. I'm sick of talking about Oswald Cobblepot."

"Suit yourself," Seamus replied. "But he will come sniffing around our door when he's no longer happy in his current position and sniveling about how much they hit him, and, "Will you please help me, Miss Doyle? And you'll have to deal with it. Make the right choice." 

* * *

><p>She went to see Danica and the children that afternoon. Danica had moved back to her parents' house after Kevin had been killed, and the kids were free of the influence of Winter Hill and the Doyle gang. Danica looked better, like she had gained some weight.<p>

"But it's still so hard, Neeve," she said as they watched Tierney give Dylan a Cheerio. "I still have nightmares. I still hear the gunshots. I still see the blood on my hands and the spatter on Tierney's face. I can still hear Kevin gasping…"

Neeve reached for Danica's hand. "It's okay. No one ever said you had to act like it was easy."

"The police were here a few weeks ago," Danica said, wiping the tears out of her green eyes. "They wanted to go over the events of that night again. They were horrible, Neeve. They seem to think I had something to do with it."

Neeve's brows knitted. "Who was over here?"

"A detective from the cold case unit."

"Not homicide?"

"There were two men from homicide, too…"

"Have you talked to Uncle Ned yet?"

Danica shook her head. "No. Should I?"

"It can only help. He can probably call in some favors." She knew Ned would call in favors, because he thought that his family has suffered enough.

"How long are you going to be out here, Neeve?"

"Permanently, I think. I need to look for an apartment and then go back to Chicago and bring my stuff here. And move out of my mom's house for good."

Danica smiled. "That's good. Tierney misses you. She was excited when she found out you were coming to Gotham."

"I've missed Tierney, too. And Dylan." Neeve sighed, trying to forget the heaviness that weighed down her heart. "But it'll be better when I'm closer. It'll be easier on you."

Danica glanced away from Neeve, turning her attention to her children. "Your mom should come out here, too."

"Mom isn't going to even set foot in the state. She's too ashamed. Still. Funny, because she had nothing to do with Dad's business," Neeve remarked.

"She knew more than she ever let on, Neeve," Danica said. "I knew more than Kevin thought I did. But I never let on that I did."

Neeve's brow furrowed. "How much did you know?"

"Enough. Why?" Danica asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Not really," Neeve said. "But I'm going to talk to Uncle Ned for you—just in case. He'll take care of it."

Danica's eyes widened. "How will he 'take care of it?'"

Neeve rose to her feet when Tierney ran to her, calling out her name. "A few calls placed with the right people will take care of the whole thing," she promised. 

* * *

><p>Captain Sarah Essen wasn't thrilled at the prospect of breaking the news to her homicide and cold case detectives. But the order had come from city hall itself, and her detectives had to abide by it.<p>

The Kevin Doyle murder had been a sad one. He had been young and his wife had been pregnant with their second child, but everyone knew that he had been involved with things that were illegal. Very illegal. He'd been trying to reassemble his father's little empire in Winter Hill, and someone hadn't been happy and put a stop to it.

"Well, isn't that convenient?" Detective Cyril Budziszewski from the cold case squad exclaimed when Essen informed them. "The sister comes back to town and we have to keep away now."

"The sister?" Detective Jim Gordon echoed, looking perplexed.

"Neevy Doyle. She moved to Chicago with her mom when Daddy got busted by the Feds," Detective Harvey Bullock told him. "You didn't see it?"

"I remember hearing about Frank Doyle, but they never talked much about the sister."

"There's nothing to talk about. Senator Doyle made sure there was nothing to talk about. She went to college and got a degree. End of story." Bullock made a face and returned to the file he had been perusing.

"Not so much 'end of story,'" Cyril objected. "Seamus Doyle's been running things in Winter Hill after Kevin Doyle was killed. We think Frank Doyle may still be giving orders from prison. His daughter went to visit him a week ago. Now she's in Gotham. How convenient is that?"

"'We?'" Bullock echoed. "Who's 'we?' You're cold case in homicide, not MCU."

Cyril gloated. "I've got connections, Bullock. The FBI is monitoring every visitor and caller who comes in contact with Doyle."

"Why are they monitoring Frank Doyle?" Jim Gordon said. "Does he have information on other things?"

"Come down to cold case, Gordon. I've got a whole box of files on homicides gone cold that Doyle might be responsible for. The Feds hear anything, they pass it on to me."  
>So there was another more or less honest cop. Another person Gordon could, perhaps, trust. The connections with the Feds certainly meant something.<p>

"You think Doyle might know anything about the Wayne murders?" Gordon ventured. Bullock's head snapped up when he heard the words. Cyril's brow furrowed as he considered it.

"As in what?" Cyril said. "Didn't you arrest the real killer?"

"We did," Bullock insisted, pushing his chair back from his desk so that he could join in the conversation. "Mario Pepper killed them. Mario Pepper is dead. Justice was served."

Cyril scowled at Bullock, then turned to Gordon. "Come down to cold case some time and we'll talk about it," he told Gordon. "The FBI may be of some use to us in this after all."

Gordon smiled wryly. "I think I might take you up on that some time soon, Budzizewski. Thanks." He headed back to his desk, ignoring the dark look on Bullock's face.

* * *

><p>The next step, according to Carmine Falcone, was consolidation of power. The plan was simple: Seamus would make it known that he was stepping down and that Neeve would be filling his role from now on. Neeve would meet with the remaining members of the Winter Hill gang, and she would take over operation of the syndicate from there.<p>

They still called her Neevy Doyle, and they reminisced about the glory days when her father had been king of Winter Hill and had held it, and even the opposing mob families in Gotham, in his grasp. They were careful, though, not to mention the messy side of it, and Neeve was relieved at that.

Frank had always been more of a violent man than a peaceful one, and his hair-trigger temper would come out when he drank. He had never hit her mother, and there had only been that one time with her, but to others, including his own son, he had been brutal. She wondered how Kevin had handled it before he had been able to start fighting back.

Her father and his men would meet in the finished basement of their Winter Hill house, the house that Seamus Doyle now owned, playing darts and poker and drinking whiskey and beer into the wee hours of the night, talking business all the while. Sometimes she would be able to hear her father yelling at one of his associates for being a clod, and she would be able to hear scuffling and the sounds of blows being dealt and the moans of men who were on the receiving end of her father's rage. Her mother had finally had been at her wits end and had insisted that they hold their meetings at the construction company office instead of their house. "You don't want the neighbors calling the cops, do you, Frank?" Vera had demanded. "That's the last thing the kids need…and the last thing I need."

"All right, Vee, all right, have it your way," he had muttered, and he had left the house to go to one of the other women he ran with. That was how he did things: he had his pretty wife and his children and he gave them the best of things, but he had a right to enjoy the company of the girlfriends.

"Loansharking, Seamus?" Neeve said as she pored over the papers from the safe in the office. "And gambling?"

"Those are dependent on one another," Seamus explained. "The gambler loses all his money and can't pay rent, he's referred to the loanshark, who lends him the money. It's too bad if he can't pay. But it's his own fault, now, isn't it?"

"I guess," Neeve said. "And smuggling? We smuggle in products from Cuba?"

"It's not as lucrative now that the embargo's been lifted," Seamus admitted. "But the guns are hot sellers."

Neeve lifted her head from the paperwork. "This is surreal. We're talking about doing illegal things like it's normal business."

"For me, it _is_ normal. It'll eventually get to be that way for you."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it," she contradicted.

Seamus laughed. "It's easier with time. You'll see, Neevy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclamer: I don't own **_**Gotham,**_** but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the favorites, follows, and reviews!**

**Author's Note: This fic is not a romance, but there's going to be some pretty dark and sordid stuff that goes on between Oswald and Neeve. I think it would be interesting; it would be a symbiotic relationship, for sure, since each can give the other what they want. Dear me, what would Mrs. Kabelput say? And I don't think Oswald is going to take Neeve's dad's return to Winter Hill well at all. Things are going to diverge from Episode 15. I can see Oswald going to the Doyles for added protection.**

**Also, if you can get the references to a certain American author who wrote several books about New York high society and American robber barons, virtual chocolates and champagne to you!**

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter Five**

Neeve found the most glorious apartment in Winter Hill, near the Meatpacking District, in what had been the townhouse of Edwardian author Lucy Danvers after her rather scandalous divorce from her husband, Henry Miles. She took it immediately, and she went to Chicago the next week to get her things.

She told her mother about what had occurred, and Vera had taken another Valium and had stared at her with vacant eyes.

"Like I said before, Gotham is going to do one of two things to you, Neeve," Vera warned. "It's going to either ruin you or kill you. You make the choice."

Neeve glared at her mother. "I've chosen, Mom, but until we find out who killed Kevin and who ordered his death. And make them pay. And when that's done, I'll be done with Gotham." 

* * *

><p>"Horserace fixing," Falcone repeated as the young woman who was his newest mistress set a cup of espresso before him and a café au lait before Neeve. He stopped speaking for a moment to look up at the girl tenderly. "Thank you, Liza. Neeve, have you met Liza?"<p>

"No, I don't think I have," Neeve said as the old man took the young woman's hand into his. She had never met any of Carmine Falcone's _comares_. It had been an unwritten rule in _La Cosa Nostra_ that business, pleasure, and family did not mix, but now she was involved in this business. _Comares _were something she needed to get used to, she thought, as Liza eyed her cautiously.

"Neeve is my goddaughter, Liza, and the daughter of one of my greatest friends, Frank Doyle," he explained to the woman. "She's like family to me."

"Nice to meet you," Liza said, her voice soft, her eyes not meeting Neeve's. There was something very strange about the girl, Neeve thought. She wasn't a _comare_ type, with her modest dress of ivory silk and the delicate gold cross around her neck and softly curled golden hair. But then what did she know of Falcone's taste in women? He was an old man, after all, and maybe there was something he wanted…and Liza gave that to him.

"Nice to meet you, too," Neeve replied, smiling. Liza's eyes met hers for just a moment, and she smiled slightly and murmured something about returning to the kitchen. Falcone watched Liza as she left. Neeve patiently sipped her coffee and waited for Falcone to return to the subject at hand."

"You think you can make money fixing horseraces?" Falcone went on.

Neeve nodded. "My dad did it for years. You approach the jockeys and order them to ride a certain way to make sure that their horse loses and the horse you want to win wins. Then you place bets on that chosen horse."

"If the jockey doesn't want to do what you say?"

"They beat him up. Or worse."

"Could you handle it, Neeve, with your soft heart, seeing men beaten up like that?" Falcone said.

"I don't know," Neeve admitted. "I guess I'd have to get used to it."

The idea of using violence was one that had crossed her mind, but it was a measure that she didn't want to use. She might be her father's daughter, but she was not at all like him. She knew that Falcone was a violent man himself, but that he was careful of using such measures. He usually left that to his enforcers, like Victor Zsasz, whom Neeve did not like and yet whom Carmine Falcone seemed to trust so much.

"Would you recommend I use the same measures you do?" she asked him carefully.

"It's not about using those measures yourself, but having the stomach for it. And you, Neeve, have neither the heart nor the stomach for it."

"But I could find people who could do that for me. I'm not my father's daughter in _that _respect, Carmine…"

"In what respect?" Carmine asked her, his brow furrowing.

Neeve stared down at her coffee. "I'm not a violent person, Carmine. I'm not like my father."

"Neeve, your father, for as much as I like him, was a very violent man. That was his reputation. He was a crazy man...and he was a very smart man. But his reputation got him respect, and he was able to run things in Winter Hill very effectively. I want you to run things effectively for me in Winter Hill, too, but you don't need a reputation as a crazy killer like your father had. But sometimes the ends justify the means. You're a smart girl, Neeve. You know this. They won't respect you if you can't lead effectively."

"Do you want me to be like Fish Mooney?"

"You're no way like Fish Mooney. You could learn a thing or two from her, but you could never be like her."

"Why not?"

Falcone smiled. "You'd never betray me, Neeve. And I'm going to show you everything I know, so don't even think of trying to betray me."

"I'd never betray you, Carmine."

"Oh?" Falcone inclined his head. "And why?"

"Because we're family, Carmine. In more ways than one."

Falcone sipped his espresso. "That's exactly what I want to hear, Neeve. You're going to love the plans I have for you and Winter Hill." 

* * *

><p>Gotham's cold case squad was a pathetic team of four men squeezed into a room that seemed little bigger than a janitor closet. Ever since the budget for the cold case squad had been cut, they had been forced to move down to the basement by the archives. Gordon could detect that old cellar smell down here that often permeated old buildings.<p>

Budziszewski was seated at his desk, earbuds in his ears and a grave expression in his face. One of the other cold case detectives tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Bud, you got a visitor. The newbie."

Budziszewski looked up and removed the earbuds from his ears. "Thanks, Don. You know Jim Gordon, right?"

The man named Don chuckled. "Everyone knows Jim Gordon. Or who he is. Detective Don Crawley." The man extended his hand, and Gordon took it. "You here about the Wayne murders?"

"I'm here for what you might be able to share with me," Jim replied, sitting down while Don went to get him some coffee.

"Bud over here thinks old Frank Doyle knows more than he's letting on. He got some recordings of Doyle's conversations with visitors."

"How'd you get those?" Gordon asked Bud. Bud smiled.

"I have friends in the FBI. We might be able to get Doyle to work with us."

"We?"

"We. The FBI and GCPD's cold case unit. Or what's left of it." Bud tossed a file at Gordon. "Read it and weep, my friend."

Jim read the file. When he had finished, he looked at Bud, his jaw almost slack. "You're not serious. You can't do this. Frank Doyle is in jail for a good reason. He's been there seven years. That's not enough for what he did."

"Frank Doyle is our in."

"He could be stringing you along like Oswald Cobblepot strung MCU along. And look where Cobblepot is now—risen from the dead and with the Maroni crime family."

"You think springing Frank Doyle out to do your dirty work is gonna solve the Wayne murders?" Harvey Bullock stood in the doorway of the office, his head inclined and an ironic expression gracing his face. "You bring Frank Doyle back to Winter Hill, all hell's gonna break loose. The best thing to do is let Carmine Falcone keep his hold over the Doyles and Winter Hill."

"So you want to let the case remain cold?" Bud demanded. "And _those_ cases?" He pointed to a large box of files sitting on an unused desk in the corner.

"The Wayne case isn't cold. We caught who did it. And _those." _ Bullock gestured to the pile of case files in the desk. "They're not going anywhere. Who knows, maybe Gordon's friend Cobblepot will come in with some info. We'll keep you posted."

As they left the cold case unit, Gordon glared at Bullock. "The Wayne case isn't solved," he hissed. "I promised that kid…"

"On paper, it's solved. Let cold case do their job on their own. Maybe the FBI will give them a break. But we're staying out of it for now, Gordon. Understood?"

Gordon clenched his jaw. "Okay, we'll stay out of it for now. But if cold case gets something, we move."

"Fair enough," Bullock replied, holding out his hand so that they could shake on it. "You bring in the FBI, you're asking for trouble. Don't do it unless you really have to." 

* * *

><p>They went to shake down a referee of the local minor-league hockey team that night.<p>

It was Nolan and one of her father's other heavies, Fitz McCarthy, along with Seamus, who did the talking. Or, more aptly, Seamus who did the talking, and Fitz and Nolan who did the beating. Neeve simply stood there, her eyes cold, her face impassive.

"Mr. Salinger, if you want these men to quit beating you up, I suggest you do as Seamus says," she heard herself say. She was amazed at how this felt like _nothing._ Seeing the man beaten up didn't mean anything to her. It was his own fault, her father would say, and he would do what the Doyle gang required of him for his own good. In the end, Salinger did as they requested, and Neeve promised him a cut of the money.

"If you want to get them to do what you want, you have to play good cop to their bad cop," Falcone had told her earlier that day during lunch. "They'll understand that it's for their own good."

It made Neeve sick once it was all said and done though.

She drank a whole bottle of wine when she got home. But she still couldn't forget.

"It gets easier," Seamus had told her. "The more you do it, it gets easier."

Did it?

She set aside the glass once she was done, pressing her hands to her forehead.

Her thoughts turned back to Falcone's _comare._ She looked familiar.

Once, when she had gone with her parents to dinner at the Falcone house, Gabriel had led her into his father's study and shown her the picture of his grandmother, who had died when his father had been a boy. The picture had been in black and white, but the grandmother had been light-haired, it was clear, and had worn neat, modest skirts and silken blouses.

Neeve wondered if the photo was still in the study. 

* * *

><p>The girl was there during the day while Falcone was gone, and Neeve took this opportunity to confront her. Nolan drove her to the Falcone house. His men weren't surprised to see her there; she concocted a story about having left a book Falcone had loaned her at the house yesterday. "It's in the study," she lied, remembering the conversation about <em>The Art of War<em> at yesterday's lunch, and they let her pass.

Liza, who had been dusting the shelves in the study, started when she heard the door open and saw Neeve enter. Neeve smiled at her, concealing her own surprise at the coincidence of Liza's presence in the study. "I left a book here," she said, and chose a volume from the bookshelf. "I haven't read _The Art of War _in awhile. Have you ever read it?"

Liza stared at Neeve apprehensively. "N-no," she stammered. "Does Don Falcone let you come and go as you please?"

"Yes and no. If he knew I was here to retrieve a book, he wouldn't think anything of it."

"Because he trusts you," Liza said.

"Does he trust you?" Neeve asked.

"I don't think so."

"He must, to let you come in here. And you've seen stuff." Neeve wandered to the shelf that held the framed photo of Falcone's mother. "What's your angle, Liza?"

"I don't have an angle, Miss Doyle." Liza held her ground, jutting out a hip and crossing her arms. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've seen this, haven't you?" Neeve picked up the picture frame and wandered to Lizas's side, showing her the picture.

"No," Lisa said. "No, I haven't."

"Take a look, and tell me why I'm asking whether or not you have an angle," Neeve insisted.

Liza stared down at the picture for a moment, and then her eyes rolled up to lock with Neeve's. "What do you want?" she whispered.

Neeve sighed, leaving Liza's side to put the picture frame back on the shelf. "How did you get involved in this?" Neeve asked her. "I'm trying to put it together, and you just don't seem to be the type to get involved with mobsters."

"Well, you're involved with mobsters. And you don't seem like the type who'd be, either."

"My case is different," Neeve said, perching on the couch. "Did someone put you up to this?"

Liza glanced away from Neeve, not saying a word. Neeve stood up, going to the desk for a pen and paper.

"I don't know what's going on, but if you need something, please don't be afraid to call me or even come to me," she said, writing down her number and approaching Liza. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can figure it out."

Liza took the slip of paper with trembling hands and slid it into the pocket of her blouse. She stared up at Neeve with soulful eyes. "Thank you, Miss Doyle. I'll keep it in mind."

But Neeve still got the niggling feeling that there was more to Liza than she wanted people to see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Gotham, **_**but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the favorites, follows, and reviews!**

**And remember, Neeve's dad is modelled after Whitey Bulger. There's loads of documentaries on him on You Tube, and one currently on Netflix. There are going to be some more plot points that closely follow the Bulger case, but I also urge readers to check out the Lady in the Dunes cold case, which may or may not have been the work of Bulger.**

**Yeah, guys, Neeve is going to go to bat for Liza. I'm not going to give away how yet, but Liza is going to live in this fic. I have two ideas to pick from.**

**Also: for a cast, Nick Dunning (from _The Tudors_) as Senator Ned Doyle, Liam Cunningham (from _The Wind That Shakes the Barley_ and _A Little Princess_) as Seamus Doyle, Polly Walker (from _Rome_) as Vera Phelan-Doyle, and Bill Nighy as Frank Doyle.**

**Winter Hill**

**Chapter Six**

After a few weeks, Neeve found that she couldn't continue to dodge her uncle, Ned Doyle, any longer, and she steeled herself and accepted his invitation to lunch at Maroni's. The thought of seeing Salvatore Maroni again turned her stomach, but if Ned Doyle could make nice with the man who may have killed his nephew, then Neeve would simply have to go along with it.

She appeared at Maroni's at the appointed time, only to find that Ned Doyle had already arrived. Uncle Ned, with his expensive, well-pressed suits and his uptight mannerisms and his enabling ways.

_Do you want to go to Paris, Neevy? Say the word and I'll send you to the Sorbonne for the year in your university's exchange program._

How about Trinity College, Neevy? Say the word and you can go there for the year in your university's exchange program too.

Neeve had said the word both times, though it had tasted like ash in her mouth both times. She knew her father had set up trusts for both her and Kevin with Ned overseeing them, since Seamus was drunk all the time and of no use to anyone except when he was needed for illicit business. And she knew that money had come from shakedowns of drug dealers, racehorse jockeys, gambling dens, and God knew what else.

People had died so her father could get that money to Uncle Ned.

And somehow, Uncle Ned had been okay with it.

And still, she was somehow okay with it.

"Neevy Doyle, look at you! Good seeing you again!" Don Maroni made a show of ensuring that Neeve was a welcome guest in his restaurant. Neeve squirmed slightly at the feel of his hand on the small of her back. "Look at this girl, Frankie. Remember Neevy Doyle?"

Frankie stared at her blankly, but still nodded. "Sure, I remember Neevy Doyle."

"This is Neevy Doyle, Frankie. Her dad was king of Winter Hill before he got arrested. Don Falcone wants to make Neevy Doyle queen of Winter Hill."

"No, he doesn't," Neeve protested, stepping away. Maroni, for whatever reason, made her want to retch. Maybe it was the fact that he was drenched in Ralph Lauren Polo cologne, which Neeve hated. Because she had always associated that with him.

Falcone grinned and pointed at her. "Ahh, there you go, Neevy, being modest! We all know it's true!"

_You killed Kevin. You killed Kevin. You killed Kevin._

"I don't know who your source is, but it's not true," Neeve gritted out. "Can I go sit down now?"

Maroni seemed taken aback at Neeve's coldness. "Sure, Neevy. And our new manager will take care of you and the senator. We got you a nice table and everything…"

Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the kitchen to escort Neeve to the table.

Somehow Neeve found him to be reassuring. He smiled at her, called her Miss Doyle and not Neevy. There was warmth about him, in the way he looked at her, as though she were the most important person in the room.

She remembered how he had lit up with her in those moments at Don Falcone's, when he had allowed her to tell him about the paintings in Don Falcone's collection. She remembered the questions he had asked, and the patience he had invoked within her.

She had dreams of traveling—of leaving all of this, of leaving her mother's drug-induced hazes behind—and yet what was it with no one else to share it with?

The truth about Cobblepot was that he was a pathetic soul. Frankie called him Hobblepot, and she made sure to give Frankie the look of death.

"What did you say to upset Neevy Doyle?" she heard Maroni demand.

"I said something about Cobblepot, called him Hobblepot."

"Don't do it again."

Oswald didn't meet her gaze, but instead seated her in front of a rather impatient Ned Doyle. "Well, Neeve," Ned said.

"Well, Ned."

"Do you know why I've brought you here?" Ned poured himself some more water from the carafe that Oswald placed on the table.

Neeve lifted her chin. "For lunch? To catch up?"

"More than that."

"Oh?" Neeve reached for the garlic toast that Oswald brought them.

Ned sighed. "Your mother called me, Neeve. She's concerned about you."

Neeve scoffed. "You know she takes enough drugs to go into rehab? Valium, Adderall to stay thin…"

"It's not about her, Neeve, but about _you." _Ned's voice lowered.

"What about me?"

"You've been spotted with Carmine Falcone, Neeve."

"And?"

"It's not good."

"So?"

"So it means everything when it comes to my career, Neeve."

"Ha, ha, because Falcone secured the election for you."

"Stop it, Neeve."

"No. You stop." Neeve leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Face it, Ned. You don't give a shit about anyone about yourself and your family. Melissa and Heather and Kyle. "

"That's not true. I care about you, Neeve."

The conversation stopped when Oswald came to them to take their orders. Ned ordered the spaghetti Bolognese, and Neeve the penne a la vodka with chicken.

"The point is, Ned," Neeve said, "Gotham PD doesn't give a shit about what really happened to Kevin, except to pin his murder on Danica, which neither of us is going to allow to happen."

"And you care about it?"

"That's why I'm in Gotham and not Chicago."

"It'll kill you, Neeve," Ned warned.

"It'll kill you, first," Neeve retorted, "since you made it clear to the press that you wouldn't rest until GCPD had brought Kevin's killer to justice. Which has yet to happen."

"You think your presence in Gotham will motivate the cops into finding Kevin's murderer?" Ned said.

Neeve shook her head and fell silent when Oswald came to fill their water glasses for them and bring them some bread and butter. Once he had gone, she replied, "The cops have done nothing. So I'm taking it into my own hands. I'm going to find out who killed Kevin and make sure that whoever did it pays."

"And that's why your mother called me, Neeve," Ned went on. Neeve glared.

"Of course she'd call you," she hissed. "Of course she'd say, 'Ned, Ned, save Neeve. She's getting wrapped up in what Frank used to do. Save her before she gets in too deep.'"

"You're in too deep, already," Ned replied. "There's talk that you've been involved in some shakedowns, and I don't know what else you're planning with Falcone. All I can say is that I can only protect you so much. If you know what's good for you, you'd stay away from Don Falcone…and you would leave Gotham."

"You forget that Carmine Falcone is my godfather," Neeve reminded Ned. "Carmine would never do anything to hurt me. He's the only one who's bothering to help me."

Ned blanched at this. "You really think Carmine Falcone would never hurt you, Neeve? If you got in the way of whatever it is he wanted, he just might. "

Neeve shook her head, sneering at Ned. "You don't know how it works Ned. You don't know how any of it works. You don't know what it was like to get that call from my mom. She was hysterical, and she could hardly get the words out to tell me that Kevin was dead. You don't know what it was like knowing you were the only one left. First Douggie, and then Kevin. Now there's just me."

"So what are you going to do?" Ned asked her quietly.

Before she could answer, Oswald Cobblepot had come to the table bearing a tray with a bottle of Prosecco and two champagne flutes. Ned cleared his throat and eyed him warily. "Young man, we didn't order that," he said.

Oswald smiled saccharinely. "Oh, of course you didn't, Senator. Don Maroni insisted on sending it over—and paying for your dinner as well—so that you might celebrate Miss Doyle's return to Gotham. Don Maroni already provided a dinner in Neeve's honor at Don Falcone's house recently, but he can never do enough for Neevy Doyle."

Ned's lips thinned as he stared at Neeve, his blue eyes blazing. "You had dinner—at Don Falcone's house? And you didn't think to tell me?"

"He's my godfather, Ned." Neeve remained calm as Oswald poured out the Prosecco, but the odd little man seemed to thrill at the friction between Neeve and her uncle. What did he see—another crack in the armor of the Doyle family?

"He's a criminal, Neeve. And he's pulling you into whatever it is he does."

"Oh, but he bought you the election fair and square, didn't he, Ned?" Neeve sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "You have no problem associating with criminals when it's convenient for you. And he's not pulling me into whatever it is he does, Ned. I was born into it."

A muscle in Ned's jaw flexed, and he threw down his napkin and pushed his chair back from the table, springing up. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this from you, Neeve," he said, trying to maintain a veneer of calm. "And I'm not going to accept free meals in Don Maroni's restaurant while you associate with the likes of him and Carmine Falcone." He picked up his car keys and stalked out of the restaurant, leaving Neeve alone with an amused Oswald Cobblepot.

"Well, Miss Doyle, that is a shame, isn't it, to have to eat alone?" Oswald said. Neeve stared up at him, her brow furrowing. "It just so happens that I like spaghetti Bolognese. I'm sure Don Maroni will allow me to have lunch with you—that is, if it's all right with you?"

Neeve sighed, motioning to the seat that Ned had occupied. "If you'd like. I'm not opposed to it. But I don't think you can drink on company time, can you?"

"I assure you, Miss Doyle, the bottle of Prosecco is yours, and you can have as much as you like," Oswald said. "Would you like an antipasti?"

Neeve couldn't resist. The antipasti platters at Maroni's were something she had missed, and when the waiter came out with the plate of olives, cheeses, and meats, she was salivating. And Oswald Cobblepot made good conversation, asking her about her time in Gotham and whether or not she had found an apartment to her liking.

"I did!" Neeve replied. "It's in one of Lily Danvers's old houses, near the Meatpacking District…You know the author?"

Oswald nodded. "I read some of her books in high school."

"What about college?" Neeve said. "Did you read her books in college? The best class I had was this seminar on all of her books in undergrad."

"I didn't attend college, Miss Doyle. I could have, but it was just my mother and me after my father died, you see, so the money wasn't there."

Maybe it was the Prosecco, or the food, or the sad story of the untapped potential that lay within Oswald Cobblepot. "I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "You're so well-spoken…and so smart. I just assumed…"

"That's a very kind assumption, Miss Doyle," he said. "But a college education doesn't mean success for everyone. I'm successful without a college education. Look—I'm the manager of one of the finest restaurants in Gotham." He affected a bashful expression and spread his hands to indicate the space that he now ruled. "And just some weeks ago, I was presumed dead."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Neeve said, reaching for more bread. "So who messed up your knee?"

He jumped, as though he were taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your knee. Someone must have messed it up and it mustn't have healed properly for you to walk like that."

"What would you know about that, Miss Doyle?" Oswald's voice grew cold, and there was a strange animosity in his eyes.

"Really, Oswald Cobblepot? You're forgetting who my dad is. You forget he used to take men to our basement and beat the shit out of them, break their hands and their jaws _and_ their knees, until they agreed to whatever it was he wanted them to do."

Oswald swallowed, his light blue eyes meeting Neeve's. "Of course I remember who your dad is. Or was. When I was younger, I went to the bar he did business out of. Triple O's, wasn't it? Anyway, I went to your dad asking for a job in his gang…as a runner. As anything. You know what he did? He called me a skinny fuck and laughed at me. He told me to come back when I could stop shaking like a leaf and when I had bulked up. I didn't go back. Instead I ended up working for Fish Mooney."

"As what?" Neeve said.

"As her umbrella boy. You know how she is about her hair."

Neeve had to laugh. "And who isn't?"

He laughed, as well. "Are you that way, Miss Doyle?"

She shrugged. "I'm still new to the game, but I'm no Fish Mooney."

"No, you're not."

"Why do you think so?"

The entrees soon appeared, and Oswald ordered another bottle of Prosecco for her. "You're too good to be a mobster's lackey."

"Is that what I'd be?"

"Not really. Everyone knows that Don Falcone is your godfather, and that he's taken you on as his little project. He's grooming you for something."

"What do you mean by 'little project'?" Neeve queried, leaning forward.

"His son is dead, your brother is dead. He was grooming Kevin Doyle. Kevin Doyle got killed. Now there's you. And he's taken you under his wing. He trusts Fish Mooney, and the Russians just enough, but his alliance with you Doyles is everything to him. If he loses the Irish mob of Gotham, he loses everything. That's why he's keeping you in a place of trust."

Neeve sipped her Prosecco. "How do you know?"

"I hear things, Miss Doyle. Don Maroni is the second most powerful man in Gotham's underworld…"

"He's the second most powerful man in _la cosa nostra_," Neeve corrected. "Which he doesn't like." She glanced at Maroni, who seemed to be watching them surreptitiously from across the room. "And which you're exploiting," she added.

Oswald didn't speak for some moments, eating the entrée that Ned had ordered. He wasn't a handsome man, really, not like the men she had dated in Chicago, or the boys who had worked for her father who were ready to fetch something for her at a whim, or the boys from high school and college who were so well-dressed and reeked of promise, but there was something else. He was clever—almost too clever—but that could be managed. And he knew his way around the underworld.

"What do you want from me, Miss Doyle?" he asked her at length, staring her down. Neeve met his steely gaze with one of her own.

"I could ask you the same question. Or, more aptly, what you wanted with my uncle the night I came back to Gotham. You were looking to make a move, weren't you? Talk my uncle into making you…what? His second-in-command? And then along I came, and those plans went up in smoke."

He inhaled sharply through his nose, as though he were trying to regain his composure. His eyes flicked down to his plate, then back up to her again. "Well, you saw right through me that night, Miss Doyle. But you're still talking to me like you're going to make some kind of business proposition. Why?"

"Your boss is coming," Neeve said, watching as Maroni rose from his seat and approached the table. "Ask for my number."

"What?"

Neeve stared at him expectantly. "I'm doing you a favor," she hissed.

As soon as Don Maroni was in earshot, Oswald said, "I'd like very much to see you again, Miss Doyle. Could I possibly have your phone number, so that we could make some plans to do so?"

Neeve smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." She tore a slip of paper out of the planner in her purse. She reached for the pen in the breast pocket of his jacket and wrote down her name and phone number as Don Maroni stopped at her side. She handed the pen and paper back to Oswald, making sure her fingers lingered for just a bit before moving her hand away from his.

The look on Don Maroni's face was priceless.

"Thank you, Miss Doyle. You'll hear from me soon," Oswald said, a smile spreading across his lips. "Would you like me to walk you to the door?"

"Please," Neeve said, reaching for her purse and her peacoat. "Have a great afternoon, Don Maroni," she made sure to amend. "Thank you so much for lunch. It turned out to be a lot nicer than I expected."

Maroni watched as Oswald led her to the door. "Anytime, Miss Doyle," he said. "Come back again."

Neeve made sure to slow her pace so that Oswald could keep up with her, and he stood close to her so that no one could hear them whispering. "That's the favor you're doing me? Making Don Maroni think I'm getting involved with you romantically? You're Don Falcone's goddaughter…"

"We'll talk about this whole thing in more detail next time. Winter Hill. Triple O's," Neeve said quickly.

He stopped in his tracks. "Triple O's?"

"Call me!" she threw over her shoulder as Nolan pulled up in the Escalade. "We'll have a lot to talk about."

* * *

><p>Don Maroni was still puzzled by the entire thing. "So Neevy Doyle's interested in <em>you<em>?" he asked Oswald.

"It would seem so," Oswald said. "You speak about it like it's a horrible thing."

"Well, she _is_ Don Falcone's goddaughter…so that makes it fishy. And…well, let's face it, penguin. She's a pretty girl. Vinnie d'Este—you remember Vinnie? My accountant? Vinnie says the guys at the all boys' Catholic high school next door to St. Catherine of Siena's were all mad over her. But Neevy was too busy for them, always too busy. Dance, that was what she did. Ballet, Irish dance, any kind of dance. Neevy Doyle was too good for any of them. Still is too good. I don't get what she sees in a skinny little runt like you."

"She said that I was clever. She enjoys talking to me."

"Did she?" A grin cracked across Maroni's face. "A pretty girl like Neevy Doyle? Who'd have known?"

"Well, you know, the unexpected always happens, whether or not you always expect it," Oswald laughed. "I never thought someone like Neevy Doyle would look at me twice, but, well, look at what just happened."

"Let me know how serious it gets," Maroni told him, putting his hand on Oswald's shoulder. "I want to hear everything…well, not _everything_. There are some things a guy still wants to dream about when it comes to Neevy Doyle. See if you can sweet talk her into leaving Falcone in the dust. And if she lets anything of use drop, you tell me."

Oswald nodded. "Sure. I'll tell you. But why?"

"Why? You know why, penguin! If I can get Winter Hill and the Irish mob on my side, Falcone won't stand a chance, and he'll have to step aside so I can run things in Gotham."

"I'll do what I can," Oswald promised.

Maroni shook his head, banging his hand down on the table. "No, penguin, you'll do it. You'll make it happen. You'll do anything you can to make Neevy Doyle leave Falcone's side and come over to mine. I want Winter Hill, and you're gonna bring it to me."

Oswald bit the insides of his cheeks. Neeve Doyle had not done him a favor, but she had only made his position worse.

And she was going to help him find a way out of it.

**And I just hope this chapter didn't suck.**

**And this week's episode was so full of WTF it wasn't funny. Whatever, I'm taking this Whitey Bulger/Five Points/Hells Kitchen/Irish mob plot bunny and running with it.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Gotham,**_** but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the follows, favorites, and reviews.**

**Author's Note: After last week's episode, which was so full of WTF it wasn't even funny, I decided to AU this and take the whole Whitey Bulger/Five Points/Hell's Kitchen/Irish mob storyline and run with it.**

**I should also add content and trigger warnings to this going forward, because Neeve did have an abortion as a teenager. I understand that people feel very strongly about this issue and that it can be very polarizing. If this is something you disagree with, please stop reading now.**

**Also, thanks to Daniella, Deangirl22, and GoEastJane for their reviews. To the guest who made the point about AU, thank you. The story summary has been changed, and the story has been marked as AU. I forgot that fools rush in where angels fear to tread.**

**Winter Hill, Book One: White Lies**

**Chapter Seven**

Neeve didn't know what she was doing. When Oswald called her later that day, she sounded as composed as possible, but questioned her own intentions.

Yet the answers were simple.

She wanted to protect him, for whatever reason, and she wanted to have his insight into Gotham's criminal underworld. Don Falcone wanted her to be the good little girl who did as she was told when it came to running Gotham's Irish mob. But there was so much more to it than Falcone had told her. There were loyalties to be courted, and Oswald Cobblepot could help with that.

_I want._

What do you want?

What do you want, Neeve?

It was the emptiness within her heart, that ache which spread throughout her whole body and ate at her soul.

_Loneliness._

She had never been able to grow close to anyone, not since the boy who had "gotten her into trouble," as her father had termed it, with a sneer and a sniff.

_You think a Traveller is going to do you any good, Neevy? You think he can give you all you have now? Maybe in twenty years' time, after pissing your life away in a trailer and having a brood of hungry brats and living in a trailer. Is that what you want?_

It hadn't been what she wanted, but she had made the decision. It had been either to marry Declan and have the baby and live like a gutter rat in a camper among the Travellers, or go to college and have the world at her feet. And she had chosen, and it had been the right choice, all things considered.

Carmine had been very clear about that. "If you get rid of it, you can move on with your life, Neeve. You can be your father's daughter again."

Neeve had laughed bitterly through her tears. "Don't you see? I'll never be _his _daughter. I am the prize, the sweet girl, but never the girl child he wanted…"

"That's not true, Neevy."

"Oh, Carmine, you know it is."

Whether or not he knew it was, he would never say. He would not even say so now, except to tell her that he had loved her and Kevin as much as he had loved Gabriel.

* * *

><p>She proposed a time for them to meet, and Oswald accepted her invitation, almost too eagerly. She found a table in a private corner of Triple O's and ordered a caramel latte. Triple O's had evolved since a son of one of the owners had taken over. It had grown from a dive bar into a café and coffee shop by day and a sports bar and brasserie by night. This was what hipsters and yuppies did, Neeve supposed, as she watched the owner, Sam O'Shaughnessy, come over to the table with her latte.<p>

"Good to see you're back, Neevy," he said as he set the oversized cup down in front of her. "Is there anything else you'll be needing?"

He nodded his head up meaningfully toward the second floor of the building, which her father had used as a sort of informal office. Neeve smiled at this.

"You heard I was taking over for Seamus?" she said.

"I heard that and more," he replied. "You've taken Winter Hill back on behalf of Don Falcone."

Neeve's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry?" she said. "I thought Winter Hill _was_ Falcone's."

Sam shrugged. "More or less. But Maroni was starting to encroach. He bought loyalty from some business owners. Seamus didn't as tight of a hold on things as your dad did."

Neeve's lips thinned. "Maroni encroached?"

"Like I said, Seamus was drunk all the time and letting stuff slide. Maroni runs a tight ship…"

"Maroni also killed my brother," Neeve snapped out. "Who sold out to Falcone? Do you have names?"

Sam jerked back as though she had touched him with a hot iron. "Names?"

"Names," Neeve repeated. "The names of who sold out to Maroni. If you want me to use that office upstairs and pay you for it, you'd better come up with the names."

"I know some of them," Sam said, "but there is someone else who knows more."

"Who?" Neeve demanded.

"Fish Mooney."

"Why would Fish Mooney know?"

"Fish Mooney knows more than you think, Neevy. Then there's good old Jory Fitzpatrick. Or the O'Neill. The O'Neill would know."

"I'm not going to the O'Neill. So there's that."

"And Jory?"

Neeve sucked in her breath. She knew Jory, but he, like Oswald Cobblepot, was a tout. He had pointed the finger at her father when it had come to the World Futbol murders in Nevada. But she knew one thing: she could trust Jory when it came to information. She had more or less grown up seeing Jory at her father's side. Hadn't it been Jory who had protected her that time the mob members from the Narrows had shot at her while she had been getting into her father's car?

"Tell Jory I've taken over the office here," Neeve said, "and then let him come to me when he chooses." She sipped the coffee and smiled at Sam. "Do you do business with Gotham PD?"

"Ah, yeah," Sam said, "we do. About that…Have you ever heard the name Bullock? Harvey Bullock from the Narrows."

Neeve shook her head. "Should I know?"

"He's a cop with GCPD…and Jim Gordon, the prosecutor's son…"

"I've heard his name around," Neeve said.

"They're partners. They've been poking around about your brother's case, and other cases with a Cyril Bud…He has a Polish last name. They call him Bud."

Neeve inclined her head. "You get me that name. Or else Oswald Cobblepot will." She nodded to the funny little man who made his way to the table. "Pull out the chair for him."

Sam did as she said. Oswald regarded her oddly, yet he kept his mouth shut.

"What do you want, Oswald?" Neeve said. "Anything. Coffee?"

"I don't much like coffee," he admitted, glowering at Sam.

"Tea?"

"With lemon. "

"You heard what the man said," Neeve purred. "Black tea or green?"

"Black. The Russian way My mother makes it that way."

"Oh?" Neeve said, picking up her cup and sipping from it. She put down the cup and propped her chin on her open palm. "Tell me more about your mother."

"You want to know?" he prompted.

She smiled. "Everything."

* * *

><p>The problem with Neeve Doyle was that she was beautiful. And that she knew it.<p>

Pretty girls like Neeve had never looked at him like _that_.

He told her. He would give his life to see his mother taken care of and happy.

And to see him as someone.

The man named Sam brought him a cup of black tea with lemon on the side. Sam waited to see if he approved, and after he sipped it, he nodded his head. The tea was good enough.

"You've put me in a jam," he told her after Sam had left.

"Have I?"

He took another sip of the tea, letting the scalding liquid bring him back to reality. "Maroni thinks I'm going to sweet talk you into seeing things as he does."

"Oh?" She pursed her lips.

"But I know you won't. You're Falcone's. Anyone can see that."

"Really?"

"You're his little project," he mustered.

Neeve shook her head. "No, I'm not. You know I'm not. I'm just the means to an end, as you are."

"What end?"

"You tell me."

"You told me," he began, "that you wanted me to help you. What do you want?"

She sighed audibly, and he could see the weariness in her face. She raised her hazel eyes to meet his, slowly. "Do you want to go upstairs?" she asked him.

For a moment time seemed to stand still, and he wondered if she was propositioning him. It was a thought that was delightful and, at the same time, repugnant. Neevy Doyle was the daughter of the man who had once been king of Winter Hill, but to someone like him, who had started out as a nobody, she had only been a princesse lointaine meant for greater things. Now she was back in Gotham, and Carmine Falcone had taken her under his wing, to teach her everything, to make her a puppet queen.

Oswald Cobblepot could find a place at the side of the queen of Winter Hill, as king, or he could be a pawn.

He chose not to be either, but the knight. Didn't Lancelot eventually win Guinevere?

She must have seen the expression on his face, and she laughed softly. "Silly. I'm not going to fuck you. I'm not that kind of girl."

"Then what kind of girl are you?"

She rose from her seat. "I'm my own girl. I make my own choices. But sometimes I need good advice before I make those choices. You seem to give good advice."

"You think so?" he replied. Her gaze locked with his.

"You work for Falcone, despite all of your machinations," she answered. "And I work for Falcone. So shouldn't we work together?"

In that moment, in which he could hear his heart beat faster, he heard himself agree.

Perhaps the prospect of sex with Neeve Doyle had become a fascinating one to him, for he had never indulged in the act, though he had heard much talk of it from Fish Mooney's men. Maroni had joked about it, telling him he was a lucky man, and to enjoy it while he could, but it was all business.

But Neeve had never mentioned sex or romance. Not once.

"Now," she said, after she closed the door to the disused office and turned on the light. "Have a seat, Oswald." She indicated the cast-off couch, upon which he sat, while she perched, birdlike, on the old oak desk. "Tell me what you know about Maroni wanting Winter Hill."

He straightened in his seat. "He wants Winter Hill. He thinks he can court your loyalty."

"How?"

"Through me. Because you made it look like you were interested in me." His throat felt dry when the words left his mouth.

She regarded him seriously. "You said it put you in a jam. I'm sorry if it did," she apologized.

Oswald laughed. "It doesn't mean we can't have our own fun. Just you and I."

Neeve smiled wanly. "No, no, it doesn't." She inclined her head. "What is it you want, Oswald?"

No one had asked him this question seriously before. Yes, Fish Mooney had asked him that once, when he was very young, only to laugh at his answer. But he took a leap of faith with Neeve. "I want to be someone in this town," he replied.

Neeve nodded, crossing one leg over the other. "You will be someone in this town. I promise you that." She watched him for a moment. When he nodded at her to continue, she changed the subject. "I just found out that Maroni has been moving in on our territory, little by little. Sam is working on getting the names of the businessmen for me, and we're going to have a little _tête à tête_ with them."

"You mean you're going to convince them to give up their loyalty to Maroni?" Oswald asked her, sipping his tea. It had gone cold by now. "As soon as you get those names, what are you going to do? Assemble your thugs and go on some shakedowns?"

She tensed all of a sudden, and her eyes darkened. "Are you saying that's a bad idea?" she said.

Oswald fiddled with his coat for a moment, his eyes not leaving hers. She stared at him expectantly, as though he might have some alternative idea. As though he might have the answer she really wanted.

The opportunity was there for the taking. Yes, she was offering him something, but there was something promising in what she wasn't offering. "I don't think it's a bad idea," he said carefully, "but I don't think you're considering the bigger picture. It would be better to get more information before doing anything."

"You know what he did, don't you? He ordered my brother's death. He just as good as pulled the trigger and left my niece and nephew without a father. Now he's trying to take Winter Hill. And he won't have Winter Hill. Not as long as I'm here!" she declared. For a moment the cucumber cool exterior had dropped, and he could see the desperation in her eyes. She wanted answers, and she wanted resolution.

"And you're looking at someone who can help you get what you want," he told her. "But we need to get more information before we move. Let's not shake these business owners down…not just yet. Don Maroni might just let valuable information drop, and I have a connection at GCPD. You should ask your uncle and his associates about what might have happened…and go to Don Falcone. Perhaps even Fish Mooney might be willing to help you, if you're willing to grovel."

"And you? What will you do?"

"Gather information. I'm very good at it."

"You're also very good at snitching."

"I'm offering to snitch for you, just like I do for Don Falcone."

She stared at him for a moment. "You might think I'm stupid, but I'm not. If you try anything we me, you're a dead man. I'll see to that myself."

The steel in her eyes frightened him, but he laughed anyhow to take the edge off. "You've never killed anyone, Neeve."

The corners of her lips tilted upward. "I haven't…yet. But who knows? There's a first time for everything. I may just be my father's daughter, after all."

* * *

><p>"Let me tell you something about Triple O's: best corned beef sandwiches and fish and chips in Winter Hill. Every time St. Patrick's Day comes around, the place is packed. You can't get in."<p>

"You know from experience?" Gordon asked Bullock as they walked into the café.

"Look, you want good bangers and mash that morning, you come straight to Triple O's," Bullock insisted as they sat down. "They have stuff on the menu for people with more refined tastes. Like you and your girl."

"We don't eat caviar every night," Gordon said as Bullock led him to a table. Bullock laughed.

"Sure you don't," he said as he sat down. He surveyed the restaurant, and suddenly his face grew grim.

"What's the matter, Harvey?" Gordon ventured as he sat down.

Bullock jerked his head toward the wooden staircase. "Be real careful about turning around, but look who's coming down the stairs. Picking right up where Daddy left off. And she's got your friend with her."

"My friend?" Gordon echoed. "Who…?" Cautiously he turned around to see Neeve Doyle's petite form descending the staircase.

But his heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Oswald Cobblepot behind her.


End file.
